


memoirs of a moment

by uhiwritestuff



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhiwritestuff/pseuds/uhiwritestuff
Summary: this is just a place for me to write what's in my mind without restriction. if you want to read it, be my guest. warning though some of these will contain sensitive subjects. ill put a (!) on chapters that do.
Kudos: 1





	1. 1

the embers of someone whose flickering has long ceased will always remain dim, until air arrives to fuel them.

* * *

quiet.

its superficial.

theres always going to be a tip tap of some clock on the wall near you in a public setting, or the sounds of someones footsteps behind your ears. you stop, you feel that strange tug of your ear towards the sound, that you never quite notice until after the fact.

i dont quite understand why or how this is, but its the only description i have right now. quiet is only surface level pastime, lying underneath it is a halting screech that can bombard you at any given moment, and when you finally take position in its volume range, it will overrun your mentality.

this is how my sensory tells me to fuck off, basically.

of course it isnt always like this. sometimes its the quiet itself that drives you mad. the sound of my own breathing in the dead of night with no wifi connection is probably the worst of that category, not so much because im obsessed with my phone, but more so because without it i have nobody to talk to in that silence. some people, usually those much older than me, dismiss the usage of my phone as not much more than me wasting my time, and that the only thing i can accomplish on my phone is losing any intelligence i had before i got it, gradually.

its not like that though.

im a lonely person. i understand that statement can be a bit a cliche sentiment to some but the truth of the matter is simple, verbatim.

im a lonely person.

most of my comfort derives from a weird cognitive dissonance of wanting social interaction and being too uncomfortable to actually strive to get it. i tend to wait and see if my friends invite me to do things with them and then get frustrated with myself whenever i realize that people have lives outside of me. so i message them first. i feel its unfair for me to feel disappointed if they decline. not everyone gets to be able to stay at home all day, everyday, and not everyone wants to hang out all the time. thats perfectly fine and valid and not upsetting or insulting in the slightest.

so why does it feel so bad?

i dont understand that either. feelings are an out of control issue sometimes, and yet despite that i constantly feel the need to blame myself for them. its a weird sadness that accompanies it. melancholy, maybe. i dont really know- or care for that matter- about how i should describe that feeling. all i know is that it hurts, probably more than it should, and it tends to spread throughout my thoughts everyday until theres a sort of tornado in my head.

but for what?

* * *

when i watch people around me move they tend to look like theyre underwater. stiff but flowing, and the slight motion blur that comes off of it gives me vertigo. im not sure if anyone else has this problem but to me everything seems to be in a constant dreamlike state; nothing seems quite as real as it used to. the air is always stagnant and humid. the house is empty. too empty but enough furniture to avoid echoes for most rooms, except mine. when i talk it comes out as a foreign sound, and bounces off the off-white my head rests against behind me. when the faint sound reaches back to my ears milliseconds later i feel like im talking to someone else, rather than myself. it never seems to go away either. im always floating and never come down far enough to get a proper grip on important things.

nothing really seems important anymore though.


	2. 2 (!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there doesnt seem to be much left here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (!): warning for dark thoughts and feelings, please read this at your own risk.

_the echochamber._ an issue thats only quite familiar in spouts of deja vu.

i dont quite remember them as clearly as i did a long time ago.

each new time it happens is foggy. no longer picked up by my brain, only the mist is there to greet me.

i have no signal.

words bounce around in my brain, back and forth like a game of ping pong, only coming back in halves, then quarters.

then nothing.

there doesnt seem to be much left here.

it feels like emotional starvation, i think. the mentality of decaying. askew only to outsiders, offset just enough to be uncomfortable to observe, but its far worse for the recipient.

aches. deprivation of something you cant quite place anymore. theres usually a skeleton key somewhere in your brain that allows you to access your thoughts and feelings and memories with color, but i seemed to have dropped mine somewhere by mistake. misplaced it among the wreckage.

and is it miserable.

people seem to only understand the surface level of it.

its deeply rooted in my bones. everytime i get up i can feel them crack from sitting in the same position for eight hours straight. everytime i move my joints ache from misuse and it adds to my own echochamber. i strain to do even the smallest tasks and if i manage to succeed i fall fatigued and exhausted again. back to square one, charge level zero.

so theres not much left here.

the constant stimulation doesnt help. the yelling, the fighting, the entire ordeal goes over my head now. i dont remember what time i got up this morning. i dont remember yesterday that well, i only really remember about how i cried over a bag of ice. each new hit comes and each time i deteriorate more.

sometimes i wish i was dead but i think im too tired to have the capacity to contemplate it, so all i do now is wait for nothing.

the thought never goes away though.

everything floats away into the mist. im left alone again. my thoughts swirl like edible glitter while im underwater, and each time i reach for them they swivel out of my grip and around each other, dancing just in the outer ring of my field of vision. too out of it to be seen clearly but enough to annoy the fuck out of me.

i miss when there was something left here.

the only thing new is you reading this, but thats simply because i wrote it for you to see what a mess i am.

honestly i feel quite embarrassed of myself, my condition. how sick i am. ashamed, even, why or how did i let myself get this way? why cant i stop being this way?

those questions are empty too. as far as im concerned ive always been this way, aimlessly waiting for _something_ that will never come. i cant recall the color anymore.

the grey will always be there.


End file.
